The Kill

Before getting Renée to relinquish her share of the property, however, he took the precaution of sounding out Larso

“Oh, my friend!” Larso

While Larso

The other man did not answer immediately, however. He had flung himself down in a chair behind his desk, and there, with his elbows resting on the blotter, his forehead in his hands, he furiously shook his head. Finally, in a choking voice, he said, “Someone stole the ledger, you see. . . .”

The story he told was this: one of his clerks, a scoundrel worthy of the penitentiary, had made off with a large number of files, including the notorious ledger. Worse, the thief had realized what the document was worth and was asking for 100,000 francs in exchange for its return.

Saccard pondered the matter. The story struck him as a crude fabrication. Obviously Larso

“Damn!” Saccard muttered, now taking a seat himself. “That’s a nasty story. . . . Would it be possible to see the scoundrel in question?”

“I’ll send for him,” Larso

Before ten minutes had passed, a short, shifty-eyed fellow with light-colored hair and red blotches all over his face quietly entered the room, carefully making sure that the door made no sound. He was wearing a shabby black frock coat that was too large for him and shockingly threadbare. Standing at a respectful distance from Saccard, he calmly examined the financier out of the corner of his eye. Larso

Saccard admired the wretched fellow’s sangfroid. At one point, the expropriation agent leapt from his chair as if to strike him, and he merely retreated a step and narrowed his eyes a bit more in a gesture of humility.

“That’s enough, leave him alone,” the financier said. “So then, sir, you’re asking 100,000 francs to return the papers?”

“Yes, 100,000 francs,” the young man answered.

With that he left the room. Larso

Saccard, however, interrupted him: “Bah! He’s nothing to be afraid of. I think we’ll be able to make a deal with him. . . . I came about something far more worrisome. . . . You were right to distrust my wife, my good friend. She’s selling her share of the property to M. Haffner. She says she needs money. Her friend Suza

Larso

“This sale,” Saccard went on, “will ruin our hopes. If M. Haffner becomes your partner, not only will our profits be compromised, but I’m awfully afraid we may find ourselves in a very unpleasant situation, as the gentleman is quite meticulous and may insist on going over the accounts.”

The expropriation agent began pacing the room in an agitated ma

“Really?” the financier said with a sly smile. “I have no more influence over my wife than you seem to have over this scoundrel Baptistin.”

Larso

The short, shifty-eyed fellow reentered the room, but this time through a different door. He no longer had his hat and was rolling a quill pen between two fingers.

“Go get the ledger,” Larso

When he had left, Larso

Saccard then agreed to pay 30,000 francs out of the future profits on the Charo

Laure d’Aurigny, who moved frequently, was at that time living in a large apartment on boulevard Haussma